Seeds
by peachyphoenix
Summary: At the pool, before Sherlock arrives, Moriarty plants the seeds for psychological warfare against John and Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – At the pool, before Sherlock arrives, Moriarty plants the seeds for psychological warfare against John and Sherlock.

So, this is eventually going to be a chapter fic (hopefully), but I'm testing out the prologue first, since it could stand alone as a oneshot if I decide not to continue it. Not brit-picked, so I apologize for any mistakes in that way.

I don't own _Sherlock_, or _Sherlock Holmes_. If I did, series 2 would already be out. :(

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Prologue: Seeds

_Slosh, drip. Slosh, drip._

The noise echoed oddly everywhere, bouncing wavily off the walls of… wherever he was. Wetly. John dragged his eyes open and frowned. For a moment, he squinted at the flickering shapes on the walls and his first confused thought was _fire?_ But that didn't feel right. Shouldn't he be hotter, if there were fire inches from his face? His next thought was _blue_. It couldn't be fire then. Fire wasn't blue. Usually.

A fine deduction, he snickered to himself. Sherlock would be proud.

He blinked several times to clear his clouded head and wondered why his skull ached. Concussion? That seemed most likely. Swallowing to clear the sticky feeling from his mouth, he rubbed a clumsy hand against a sore spot on his neck. Drugged as well, then. Well, that just seemed like overkill… The stark, chemical smell of chlorine hit him, and he realized he was laying facedown in a shallow puddle on the floor. With a groan, he lifted his head from the cool ceramic and grout digging into his cheek and looked around. Once recognition of his surroundings dawned on him, however, he was utterly bewildered all over again. A… swimming pool? How—_what?_

He struggled to his feet blearily, staggering as the movement shifted weight he knew he hadn't had there before he'd woken up. He looked down—and his heart stopped. Horrified eyes widened as his hands pushed aside a ridiculously puffy coat and touched the bulky vest strapped to his chest beneath. A tiny red light danced over the black material. His breath quickened. Bomb. Bloody hell, his foggy mind supplied, he was strapped to a bloody _bomb_.

But why? _How_? He searched his memory frantically. He'd been walking, on the way to get a cab to Sarah's when… He growled in frustration. What had _happened_? He must have been attacked, that much was clear. He hazily remember three men—had it really only been three?—jumping him as he'd turned a corner. It had happened so fast… They must have knocked him out and dragged him here and… strapped this bomb to him… _Bomb_._ Oh, God…_

The fifth pip.

He was the fifth pip.

_Sherlock_.

"I see you've finally decided to wake up," a lilting voice called to his left. "Good job, too. It's almost _show time_." John whipped his head around toward the voice.

His eyes came to rest on a little man standing by the poolside, stance self-assured with his hands in the pockets of his obviously expensive suit. A quick glance around confirmed that they seemed to be the only people in the area. Well, except for the invisible sniper, obviously, with his little red dot. Did the sniper count? Didn't matter. John frowned and cleared his throat. "Right. And… who are you?"

The man's smile curved up, all Cheshire cat and barely veiled malice as he rocked on his heels. John's stomach suddenly froze. "Oh, I think you know who I am, Dr. Watson."

_Moriarty_. His mind whispered the name tremulously, and he felt a jolt of panic. John stood a little straighter despite the added weight and he worked to fix a glare on his features. Even if his heart _was_ beating out of his chest, he wasn't going to let this bastard see that.

If this man was anywhere near as smart as Sherlock, however, John suspected that Moriarty already knew. Besides, he could probably _smell_ fear. It was his stock in trade, after all.

"Spectacular," John managed to spit out dryly. "What do you want?"

"Ever the soldier, eh, Johnny boy? I have always enjoyed a good show of bravado," the criminal trilled. He made an expression of mock-stoicism before grinning. _The bravery of the soldier…_ John thought almost fondly back to when Mycroft was the worst he had to worry about, back when he'd wondered if the man with the umbrella was some sort of evil mastermind. Mastermind, maybe, but not evil as far as he could tell. Moriarty though? John sighed. Only Sherlock could dredge up a man like this as an opponent—and be happy about it.

Archenemy indeed.

He studied the other man cautiously and Moriarty tilted his head under his scrutiny, as though enjoying it. The criminal allowed the stalemate to continue for a moment before taking a few casual steps toward John. "How does it feel?" he asked suddenly. John was eerily reminded of a cat tossing its prey in the air, playing with it before making the final kill. Brown eyes gleamed, predatory, in the half-light. The doctor marveled briefly at the unnerving—and almost certainly insane—expressiveness of the other man's face. _How_ could he even keep up that expression? Never mind. _Focus, John._

He'd play for now. What choice did he have? Jaw clenched, he took a breath. "How does what feel?"

Moriarty's smile quirked up at one corner, as if to say,_"Good boy."_ John bristled, but stayed silent as he waited for an answer.

"You used to be a proud military man," Moriarty began slowly. His mouth was angled as though sad, almost pitying, but his eyes were smiling devilishly. John tensed and tilted his chin up boldly. Wherever this was going, he didn't like it. "Off to war in service of _Queen and country_, and all that. You made a home there, didn't you? For all the horror, you thought you _mattered_ there. Silly idea; of course you didn't. For every life you saved, more were lost, weren't they? And you couldn't do a thing to stop _that_. But you _thought_ you mattered. And it made you happy for once in your sad little life, didn't it?"

Fists clenched, John could barely feel the slight tremor in his left hand. The sound of gunshots, the cries of the dying, the glazed blankness of dead eyes staring up at him, blood on his hands in the heat of the sun… _Don't listen to him; ignore him, _he repeated in his head. He tried to focus on the gentle sloshing of the water in the pool, the hum of the pool heater, anything. But he couldn't help listening. Moriarty's voice was hypnotic, and he felt it drawing him in.

"Poor little Johnny," the voice said in a simper. "The nasty divorce, father an alcoholic, mother unstable. You just wanted everyone to get along. Crazy sister you've tried so hard to save. But no matter what you try, you can't. You've felt useless your whole life, haven't you? That's why you became a doctor. A doctor is never useless. And a soldier is never helpless. You took _charge_ of your life, and you risked your life to prove it. The danger made it feel real—made you feel alive, made you feel useful. You thought you'd found your 'purpose' in Afghanistan." He made exaggerated air quotes around the word "purpose," eyes widening comically, before replacing his hands in his pockets with a smirk. "But you were running away. And perhaps a little part of you that you'd never admit to didn't even mind if you died there."

Moriarty's face took on an oddly intense expression, and John tried to swallow past the growing lump in his throat. No—this wasn't right. There was no way Moriarty could know so much about him, when he'd never even... It wasn't bloody _possible_. But there the man stood, smirking, knowing he was right, and John suppressed a shudder. Still, he maintained eye contact with the brown eyes as their owner cheerfully tore him to shreds. He wouldn't look away. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction. His nails dug into the palms of his steady hands as glared. _Give me your best shot, _Moriarty_. It'll take more than that._

"You lost more than just a job when you were wounded in Afghanistan. You lost the only stable family you'd ever had. The only place you'd made a difference. And then they just _abandoned_ you on the streets on your homeland with barely a nod of thanks!" the criminal gasped. He made a tutting noise of mock-offense. "Parents dead, sister drunk, unable to do surgery. You were alone. Useless and helpless and everything you'd hated about yourself all over again."

John shivered. _God, the damned blankness of that room where he'd lived, like it could swallow you while you slept…_ No. He wasn't going to just stand here and listen to this. He had to say something, tell Moriarty off, tell him he was wrong. But the truth was that he _wasn't_ wrong. Moriarty's smirk widened as he twisted his verbal knife. "How does it feel to go from being the soldier to being the stray, the pet… the idiot companion of a genius? It's shameful how much you care for that man, even suspecting he can never reciprocate." His voice dropped in volume and his eyes blazed. "He'll _destroy_ you—and like a sick puppy, you love him for it."

At the reference to Sherlock, John felt his stomach clench. Piercing blue eyes under a mess of dark curls.

_Sherlock_.

The man had given him purpose again after Afghanistan. Something to live for. Given him back his leg and his life, in a sense, he supposed. He'd been captivated by the man and his sheer brilliance, Sherlock's raw potential to do so much _good_. John had done everything he could to protect and help him, from day one. More than that though, John was _drawn_ to Sherlock, in a way that he could never have anticipated. Maybe Moriarty was right. Maybe it was just because that part of him that craved danger saw his own destruction in those blue eyes and screamed _Oh, God, yes._ Still, John couldn't help feeling there was more to it than that. It didn't matter though, he supposed. In the end it amounted to the same.

Even feeling the weight of the Semtex vest weighing down on him and knowing it was because he knew Sherlock, John had no doubt that it was worth it.

John wondered idly if his absence would mean anything to the detective. Would he notice something was wrong and deduce he'd been kidnapped? He doubted it. He'd said he was going out, so Sherlock would have no reason to suspect… But he would find out eventually. There was no point, otherwise, to all this. Would John just be another puzzle piece in the game to Sherlock, like the other four pips? Moriarty had clearly intended to up the stakes by taking _him_ though. Surely that counted for something, if Moriarty thought it would affect him more? Perhaps slightly more than a puzzle piece then?

Still, John silently prayed with all his heart that Sherlock stayed away. He doubted the other man would—he couldn't resist a challenge, and Moriarty had become a sort of addiction. But John was beginning to suspect that the detective had finally found a worthy opponent, and he wasn't sure if it was one the man he'd come to think of as a friend could ultimately win against. His mouth went dry at the thought of a defeated Sherlock, and his lips formed a thin line. _Not on my watch._

"Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty purred, watching John carefully, "who picked up a stray off the streets because he was _bored_. You didn't think he kept you around because you were actually of any use to him, did you, Johnny boy? That he cared?" John's stomach dropped in dread as Moriarty threw that bomb onto his mental tracks and completely derailed his train of thought. Not of any use…? Hold on, _what?_

Moriarty studied the doctor for a moment before his lip curled. "Hardly. Sherlock Holmes keeps you around because you're a bit of a curiosity to him, something he doesn't quite understand—yet. The mousy little man with the nerves of steel. But you know Sherlock Holmes, don't you." Moriarty grinned. "He never leaves a puzzle unsolved for long."

His smile curved up a little more as he began to circle John, completely at ease with his hands still in his pockets. Locking his knees to avoid falling from legs that were beginning to feel like the sloshing pool water, John watched. "What do you think he'll do, once he's figured you out?" Moriarty mused. "Do you think he'll keep you around? Let you beg for scraps and tag along at his heels, like you do now? Of _course_ not," he scoffed with a little scrunch of his nose. He leaned in slowly and grinned, so close to John's ear that the former soldier could feel the man's breath. John tried to tense away even as he was conscious of the laser on his chest. As he worked to control the increasingly panicked pace of his breathing, a morbid part of John listened intently to the words he knew he should ignore.

"_He'll get bored_."

John's breath caught.

With a quiet laugh at the flash of despair John couldn't quite hide, Moriarty skipped back a step and continued the leisurely stroll around his victim. His voice hardened to a tone that didn't match the jovial expression on his face. "He'll get _bored_, Johnny. And he'll leave you behind as soon as he does. You may be of interest now. He may even think that he cares for you a little—it's easy enough to mistake prolonged interest with affection, especially for someone like him—but don't expect it to last long. He'll recognize the difference soon enough. And he'll abandon his little stray. You're of absolutely no value to a man like him. Nothing you do can change that."

No. No, that wasn't... Quick breaths rushed in through his nose, shuddered out. He tried to focus on keeping a steady rhythm to the breaths, stubbornly ignoring the small tremors washing over him. His drugged muscles ached with the effort of standing and his already foggy head clouded further in confusion. _Sherlock didn't care._

But Sherlock wouldn't just abandon him… would he? Surely John was at least of _some_ value to his flatmate? After all they'd been through, he'd thought… he'd _hoped_… Almost from the start, he'd felt a sort of connection with the man he couldn't explain, and he'd thought at times that Sherlock felt it too. That they were _friends_, for lack of a better word. Sure, Sherlock expressed it in ways most people wouldn't recognize, but he'd thought that was just because he was, well… _Sherlock_.

He supposed he really had no evidence to support his conclusion at all though. In fact… he had more to support Moriarty's claim than his own. Everything else Moriarty had said was certainly true. With every breath the pain in his chest increased a little. Maybe Sherlock _was_ just… bored. Sherlock had been going about his life and solving cases long before John had come along. And if John were to somehow disappear, he suspected the detective would go right along, the same as always.

John didn't matter. He probably never would.

Still, the hope that maybe he did matter somehow was all he had left to hold onto. And even if he didn't matter to Sherlock… If he could keep Sherlock safe, help him solve a case just a bit faster than he would have on his own, maybe it was a bit that mattered. To someone. Somewhere. Even if they didn't know it.

That shadow of a hope was all he had. Because he really was useless everywhere else. God, it was all he had left—and suddenly it struck him just how truly pathetic that was. _He_ was.

Moriarty's grin widened as he saw his victim realize the truth. Obviously satisfied, the man turned and strolled away, leaving John alone with the laser sight over his shattered heart.

Sherlock's face.

And everything exploded.

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A month later, John woke with a start. Moriarty's grinning face seemed to linger, taunting him as the memory faded into the dark of John's bedroom. Just a dream. It had just been a dream… A sigh shuddered out and he let his head flop back onto his pillow. God, this was the second one this week. How long was this going to go on? He dragged one shaking hand across his face as he clenched his sheets with the other, desperate to ground himself in the present. The thin fabric was cool against his hand, and it took him a moment to realize that it was moist with sweat from his nightmare. He unclenched his hand in disgust and sat up with a cough.

A glance at his clock told him, as expected, that it was far too early for this. Or late. The glowing _2:34AM_ stared at him from across the room, and John moaned before he noticed the scratching noise creeping under his door. A weary smile snuck onto his face. Of course Sherlock was playing the violin at two thirty in the morning. The scratching whine took on a frenzied pace before sliding seamlessly into a soothing concerto of some sort. John relaxed back into his bed and breathed out. As always—whenever his friend was actually _trying_—his playing was beautiful.

It didn't completely drive away the nightmare though. As usual, John tried to combat this particular nightmare (or memory, really, he supposed) with the memory of what had happened after Moriarty had left him, crushed and alone, to wait for Sherlock's arrival. He remembered Sherlock's face through the encounter, the outright _fear_, his jittery actions and words after they'd thought the consulting criminal had left. Frankly, it had shocked John. No one could have seen Sherlock that night and not think that Sherlock cared.

_Easy enough to mistake prolonged interest with affection_, the ghost of Moriarty reminded him all too gleefully. He stifled another cough with a growl and turned onto his side. Damn Moriarty and his lies. His words were nothing but bloody poison. But what disturbed John most was how true most of Moriarty's words regarding John's life had been, things he'd had no right to know…

What if he was right about this too?

No. This was ridiculous. He couldn't believe he even _considered_ buying into the words of a complete psychopath. He'd obviously been trying to shake John up—and he'd succeeded well enough, John had to admit. But it was _over_ now. John breathed carefully in, then out. In, out. Sherlock's private concert crescendo'd downstairs and John was forced to smile at a flashy, rapid progression of notes.

As he continued to focus on breathing, the tremulous notes washed over him, finally washing away the remnants of the nightmare. He wondered for the hundredth time if Sherlock somehow knew when John had had a nightmare, or if he just happened to be playing whenever John needed something to coax him back into sleep. He rather suspected the latter. He doubted his flatmate slept at an hour any normal person would consider reasonable, and he was more likely to be playing his violin at night than not, even if they had a case. It helped the detective think—or alleviate his boredom, in this instance. He laughed softly to himself. It was certainly a better outlet than blowing up the microwave. Again.

Ten minutes later, he was silently thanking Sherlock and Mozart or Vivaldi or whoever had written the piece that was being played as his eyes closed in exhaustion. Recovering from a cold was always a pain, he thought as he coughed again, and he was grateful for any sleep he could get. Arm resting over his closed eyes, he focused on the music and let out a breath.

He was just on the edge of a hopefully dreamless sleep when his phone rang. The noise startled his raw nerves into action almost before he knew what he was doing. With a string of muttered curses, John jumped out of bed and over to the table where his phone was charging, the only light in the dark room besides the clock. Fumbling fingers snatched it up and he checked the caller ID.

His stomach immediately sank. Harry? And going by the time, she was in the process of calling him drunk. Again.

He considered ignoring the call. He'd done it often enough in the past. But enough of the memory of his nightmare still crept around the back of his mind that he was suddenly filled with a burst of anger. He wasn't useless. And he wasn't going to be useless to his sister. He loved her too much to give up. She'd been so variable lately in her drinking and moods, and he was growing increasingly concerned… but surely there was _something_ he could do. He was a doctor, for God's sake. What good was he if he couldn't help his own sister? He just wanted her to be bloody _happy_—for _once_.

Bracing himself, he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

An instant after hearing Harry's slurred voice, however, he knew he was fooling himself. It was the same old story, and, as usual, she never listened. Still, he'd be damned if he didn't at least keep trying. No matter how much it hurt.

A part of him wondered why he bothered.

He shoved down the niggling bite of despair in his stomach and worked to soothe his sister for what felt like the thousandth time.

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A/N – Love it? Hate it? Want to see some more? : P


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – Hello again! Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed… I replied to those I could. To the rest of you, replied at the bottom! Now… onward! :)

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From the time John moved in, Sherlock had observed him. Over the months, the detective had become acquainted with his habits around the house, the way he interacted with others (in public and in private), his wry sense of humor, the experiments that were most likely to rankle the doctor, the way he took his tea (different in the morning than in the afternoon), the way his eyes crinkled when he sneezed and the way it differed from the crease of his eyes when he laughed.

No detail regarding his flatmate escaped his notice or interest, it seemed to Sherlock. That fact alone was almost as interesting as the doctor himself. He found himself daily awed by the equal ease with which his friend's hands could bandage Sherlock's wounds, console a victim's kitten, or incapacitate an attacker. He found himself spending hours trying to determine just what color his eyes were exactly (he still didn't know). And where the doctor smiled at him when everyone else frowned, he found himself wondering _why_ before they dashed off together in another mad chase through the streets of London

However, after the initial confused inner struggle, Sherlock wasn't ashamed to admit (in the privacy of his own mind) that John and his quirks brought him a sense of pleasure he wasn't at all used to feeling in regards to another human being. Watching John had quickly become one of his favorite pastimes.

In fact, there were few things involving John that _didn't_ bring Sherlock at least some degree of pleasure—even if it was only one of his stupidly inane comments about their needing milk again and wouldn't it be nice if Sherlock bloody well went and got it for once? But of course, they both knew he wouldn't (except that one time when he'd burned a hole in John's favorite jumper with an experiment-an aberration). John's long-suffering sigh in response to this knowledge would crinkle his eyes in an entirely different from either sneezing _or_ smiling—and it was _fascinating_. The thought of it tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

But some things about John he watched completely without the usual concomitant pleasure. John's conversations with his sister, for instance, Sherlock observed with what he recognized distinctly as unease.

_Dread and recognition on John's face, a hesitant crease to his brow as he silently listened, pacing and rubbing his neck uncertainly, his expression reading a distinct "I'm trapped," the voice on the other end of the phone increasingly loud and desperate_: Stage 1, Harry apologetic and pleading after their latest fight. Sherlock's unvoiced analysis: not to be trusted. John always let her back into his life anyway. Even if only minimally.

_Cautious optimism on John's face, head tilted receptively, standing in one place and nodding until finally easing down into a seat, hand occasionally coming up to rest on his chin, intermittent flittering of a pleased half-smile as he spoke and listened in turn_: Stage 2, Harry sober. A rarity.

_John, face disappointed but resigned, seated one minute, standing the next, pacing, then sitting, heavy sighs and attempts to interject his own voice into a loud, one-sided conversation on the other end of the line_: Stage 3, Harry ebullient and no doubt beaming sloppily as she started drinking after one of her "breaks" in the habit—again.

_John seated, head hung low, eyes closed, not even attempting to add anything to the hysterical conversation on the other end of the line, just occasionally shaking his head and rubbing a hand over his forehead_: Stage 4, Harry drunk, angry, despondent, crying, blaming, vicious. Near the end of the conversation, John would rally enough to defend himself and try to set her right and they'd fight.

The next day (Stage 5), Harry would call, John would ignore it. She'd try again. And again. Then, Sherlock would watch the look of strained anguish on her brother's face as he finally picked up and realized that she once again had no memory of the conversation from the night before that had put him through hell. John would bite out a response, they'd fight again, and that would be the end of it for some days or even, several times, weeks. Then Harry would call to apologize and some variation of the cycle would begin all over again.

It was exhausting. And a little piece of his friend died every time it cycled through. Sherlock could see it.

This time was no different. From the lack of pacing and the late hour of the call last night, he concluded that Harry had moved on from the Stage 3 of the other night and into Stage 4. Sober she'd lasted… he thought back. Had she been sober at all this time? This seemed to be one of the rounds where she'd skipped Stage 2 altogether, making it the shortest cycle Sherlock had noted to date.

Then again, the turnover time between cycles had been becoming increasingly rapid. Where it had once taken well over a month to complete the cycle, that time had gradually shortened to roughly a week—and that was with John ignoring half her calls. If his recent cold was anything to go by, the stress of it was starting to wear on John. Although his endurance for pain when it came to his sister was idiotically impressive, Sherlock knew that even John had a breaking point, and he suspected he'd reach it soon.

Sherlock's only conclusion on the matter was that the best thing for John to do—by far the most logical and beneficial for him, anyway—would be for him to cut ties with his sister altogether. The man never would though. Apart from lacking slightly in the logic department, John didn't seem the type to approve of treating siblings as disposable. Sherlock thought of his own umbrella-ridden sibling and smirked.

Pity.

At quarter to ten in the morning, John finally plodded down the stairs, a fist in one eye as he yawned. When the hand dropped, Sherlock took in the drawn features, the dark circles under the eyes, and silently cursed his friend's sister. Why couldn't she have just let her brother sleep? Sherlock knew he'd almost soothed the man enough to get him back to sleep after his nightmare. And John would have done, if it hadn't been for… _her_. Sherlock cleared his throat and swallowed the urge to scowl.

"Morning," John croaked with a sigh.

Throat still raspy then. The cough was finally going away for the most part, but it still made an appearance occasionally. And of course the doctor still looked like hell. He supposed it was no surprise—that clinic John called his workplace was crawling with sickness—he was bound to catch something eventually—but still.

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth quirk minutely in irritation. The older man was clearly exhausted. It was indecent. Hadn't Harry been able to tell from John's voice on the phone that he was ill? The signs were no doubt glaringly obvious, even to a drunk as idiotic as John's sister apparently was. From his perch on the couch, Sherlock peered at John over the top of his laptop before returning his attention to the screen. "Morning," he replied evenly.

John flopped into his chair and closed his eyes with another sigh. (Sighing for days after a phone call from Harry: typical of Stages 3 and 4.) He opened them again a moment later and focused on Sherlock. "So. Anything on?"

"No," Sherlock replied in a tone that he knew bordered on overtly petulant. He stared at his website for a moment, disgustingly bare of any new posts, before tossing the laptop to the bottom of the couch and scrunching his knees up to his chin. He curled his toes into the leather and pouted unabashedly. _Bored_. The only good thing about this particular gap between cases was that it was allowing John time to recover from his illness. In the meantime, however, there was no case, no sign of Moriarty, Sherlock was still in his pajamas because there was _no bloody reason to leave the flat_, and John was going to be falsely pretending he wasn't mopey and depressed all day.

It was going to be an awful day.

The two lapsed into silence and John adopted that vaguely somnambulant look he got when he was thinking before rubbing his forehead and sighing—again. Sherlock groaned under his breath and drooped despairingly into the couch. He hated it when John was depressed. And every one of those subconscious little sighs was a dagger in his heart.

Damn this caring lark. He admitted to a certain level of caring for John, but why did his pain have to hurt Sherlock too? It made no _sense_. Sense, it seemed, had little to do with it, however. He wondered idly if his apparent sympathetic response to John's pain was unique to emotional stimuli. There was certainly plenty of it this morning.

For the most part, John limited his interactions with his sister to phone calls, the occasional text, and Harry's comments on John's blog. Although it was obvious John cared deeply for his sister, half of all attempts at communication were ignored by John, and they only rarely met in person. He suspected it hadn't always been that way, that there had been a time when John had answered every phone call, before he'd gone to Afghanistan, but no more. Most likely it was because it would be too painful for John, and he was keeping her at a distance from years that had taught him not to trust her, Sherlock thought.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock found he was grateful for John's limited contact with his sister. If she managed to upset John with just the occasional phone conversation, he couldn't imagine what it would do to the doctor to meet with her in person with any sort of frequency. As it was, Sherlock had met Harry exactly once. It had been enough to read all he could from her—and his analysis had not been overly favorable.

It had been a week after the Pool, and Sherlock had just brought John home after the doctor had finally been discharged from the hospital. By the time they'd stumbled, exhausted, back into their flat, it had been well into the afternoon and they'd collapsed into their respective chairs with what could only be described as relief. Sherlock had folded his legs, cross-legged, up onto his chair and just watched him surreptitiously.

John was home. _Finally_.

A week. Sherlock himself had been discharged after only a few days, his injuries having been less severe. Since then, he'd been out of his mind worrying about the other man—not that he'd let John know that, not purposefully, at least. John was uncomfortable being fussed over. So he'd watched John in a painful combination of pleasure, guilt, and uneasiness. The ex-soldier had been… quiet since waking up after the explosion, and it had disturbed Sherlock. Still, he hadn't been able to put into words how very grateful he'd been that John was alive at all, quiet or not.

It had been a near thing. Too near. Sherlock could still remember the way the blood had glistened on John's too still face in the fire from the explosion, his face still wet from their dive into the pool to escape the blast—John had saved both their lives with that stunt. The brief moment when Sherlock had woken in the hospital, unable to remember what had happened and been afraid that John had… Well, now that he had him back, Sherlock hadn't been about to let John out of his sight for longer than he needed to. The man clearly needed watching.

Besides, the flat had simply seemed _wrong_ without him. He'd hated it more than he cared to admit, and as a result he'd spent a great deal of time finding reasons to visit John at the hospital for hours on end, despite John's insistence that Sherlock needed to rest as well. He'd hardly left the doctor's side. There was no chance of the flat feeling like—_that_—again now, though. John was back. Things could finally get back to normal.

Well, normal for them, anyway. The only normal that mattered. _Their_ normal.

His mind had still been buzzing happily around that fact as they'd sat there on the couch in companionable silence after eating later that evening. The remnants of their Indian take-away dinner had sat on the table and the telly had been on, volume low, more like background noise than anything else. John had just leaned back and smiled softly, clearly dozy. He'd looked content, more peaceful than Sherlock had seen him in days. Sherlock wouldn't have disturbed him for the world.

So when they'd heard a knock, Sherlock had leapt up and thrown a quick "I'll get it!" over his shoulder before John could move. As he'd flown out the door, he'd heard John make a weak noise of protest before sinking wearily back down into the couch. The detective had smirked. A few bounds had him down the stairs and at the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen a bleary-eyed Mrs. Hudson peep her head out through the door to 221A.

He'd yanked the front door open to reveal a petite woman with blunt features and dyed red hair stemming from mousy brown roots. Another case? He'd frowned at her for a moment, studying her carefully, before immediately dismissing the idea. She'd obviously been drunk—she'd reeked of it—leaning heavily on the doorway with red-rimmed, far away eyes. Although her hair wasn't the odd ashy blond of his flatmate, there had been something similar about her features. He'd looked again at the eyes and something in his gut had twisted uneasily. They were the same indistinguishable color as John's. Related then. Drunk and at his doorstep at only ten at night? Alcoholic.

"Who is it then, dear?" Mrs. Hudson had asked from behind him.

His voice had been edged in ice as he'd replied. "No one to worry about, Mrs. Hudson. Go back inside." His eyes had narrowed as he stared at their visitor.

John's sister. Harry.

That determined, he'd felt himself almost unconsciously block her from sight to the upstairs, suddenly feeling the inexplicable need to protect his friend from whatever this woman had to say. Outside of informing her that he was all right, John had been ignoring her calls since the Pool, too tired to deal with her and full of some emotion Sherlock couldn't place. However, unless he was very much mistaken, they'd been nearing the inevitable Stage 4 in the cycle, and it was always the part that hurt John the worst.

The doctor was in no shape for it tonight. Sherlock had taken a step outside and tugged the door shut a little behind him. "Yes?"

She'd blinked at him owlishly. "'Sss…Johnny'ere?"

Sherlock's nose had wrinkled at the foul smell of her breath, and he'd drawn himself up a little in disdain. For a moment he'd simply stared at her, weighing his options. "You're his sister, aren't you." It wasn't a question. It rarely ever was. "Harry, yes?"

Her eyes had squinted up at him. "You're the flatmate, aren't you," she'd mimicked. "Sherlock, yes? What kind of name is that anyway?"

With an offended sniff, Sherlock had crossed his arms. "John's resting."

The John-like eyes had narrowed further. "You mean he's still hurt, don't you? Bad this time? God, that idiot… I'm gonna kill 'im." He'd credited her with slightly above average intelligence for having deduced the severity of John's injuries—although as John's relative some intelligence wasn't really wholly unexpected—but he'd made no move to get out of her way when she'd tried to push past him. Especially given her idle threat toward John.

She'd huffed in annoyance and thrown him a glare that could have melted glass. "Doesn't give a damn what happens to me if he dies, does he? Never bloody has. Would have thought he'd have had enough of _that_ in Afghanistan, when he got _shot_." Her glare had fixed on him in disdain. "And while I'm at it, where do _you_ get off dragging my brother all over London after criminals? You're gonna get his bloody head shot off, is what you're gonna do, you bastard. You just leave him alone, huh?"

Sherlock had had to work hard to suppress a wince at that one. After what they'd just been through at the Pool, the words had hit a little too close for comfort. The memory of John in that Semtex vest had stopped his heart all over again. For a moment, a part of him had wondered if John wouldn't be better off without him, but the thought of it… of no longer having John around… No. Going on cases seemed to make John as happy as he'd ever seen the man, and he'd felt rather invested in the former soldier's happiness since curing his limp, if he were to be honest with himself. Besides, it was ultimately up to John what he did. Wasn't it?

He'd been just about to scathingly inform _Miss Watson_—perhaps a bit defensively—that her brother was perfectly capable of making his own decisions and that if he chose to spend his time accompanying Sherlock on cases then it was hardly any concern of hers. But just as he'd opened his mouth to speak, a very befuddled John had opened the half-closed door the rest of the way to take in the scene with obvious unease. The group had then moved into the hallway for what had quickly escalated into a full-scale row.

Which had then turned into a row between Sherlock and John once Harry had left—mostly on John's side, of course. Outside of reminding his blogger (rather louder than he intended, he'd admit) that he was _supposed_ to be taking it easy, Sherlock had really had nothing to contribute to the conversation. His "interfering" in trying to keep Harry out had been the only sensible action, given the circumstances, and he'd already drawn his own conclusions on the matter:

He did not like Harriet Watson.

The fact that she'd agitated her brother into such a state when she'd clearly known he was hurt only confirmed it, whether she was aware of her drunken actions or not. She'd even gone so far as to push him—physically _push_ _John_! Sherlock's blood was still boiling. The doctor had made her leave after that, perhaps seeing the look in Sherlock's eyes, but the detective's mind had been made up. Her expressions of care for John may have had good origins, but they were shallow at best and solely self-serving and selfishly motivated at worst.

In the end, he'd managed to drown out John's yelling at him with his violin, and the doctor had stopped his crutched limp-pacing to sink onto the couch in exhausted defeat. "I'm sorry. Just… I'm sorry," John had muttered, then struggled back up and gone to his room.

Sherlock had spent the next day sulking while John had kept largely to his room.

Now, she was preventing John from the rapid recovery he needed from his illness—and she wasn't even here. Even more damning for Harry, John almost seemed a bit worse today than the day before. As John got up to make them tea, Sherlock noticed the hint of a limp in his friend's gait and couldn't decide if it was leftover from the Pool or if his psychosomatic troubles were acting up. He didn't like it. The idea of either possibility gave him an odd feeling in his chest and stomach.

Sherlock studied the feeling as he watched John work. (The doctor barely even flinched at the severed foot in the fridge, he noted with pride.) The feeling had become much stronger since the Pool, its occurrence more frequent. Then again, he had to admit that it was alternately possible that the Pool had just been when he'd truly noticed it. He studied the furrow of John's brow, the weary eyes, and he tried to identify the feeling as it swelled minutely. Protectiveness? he hypothesized. Discomfort on another's behalf, perhaps? He felt a jolt. Was this what it was like to worry about someone?

It was dreadful.

That didn't stop him fretting though, somewhat to his bewilderment. Sherlock curled up on his side, facing John, and stared at his phone as he willed it to ring. In the kitchen, John leaned against the worktop and his shoulders sagged wearily. Sherlock's frown deepened. It had been a bad one last night then, most likely the nightmare in addition to his sister's call. Not to mention that being confined to the house by his cold was starting to make the doctor rather restless. The feeling swelled again.

At this point, John needed a case as much as Sherlock did—despite his illness. John always threw himself into cases with such abandon after interactions with Harry. He knew it was because John needed to feel useful, needed, productive in his seemingly never-ending quest to help others. He could do through the work what he was apparently helpless to do for his sister. Sherlock was all too happy to provide that for him. Whatever the reason, Sherlock enjoyed having him along.

However, neither of them were going anywhere at the moment, with no case. Why were the criminals in London being so consistently _dull_? He hardly dared to hope that the police force had become any more competent. So why was Lestrade idiotically depriving them of an interesting case to distract them? Did no one care that they were bored? He blinked at the little screen on his phone, glaring. _Ring, damn you. _Ring_!_

To his surprise, the screen lit up as the phone began buzzing in his hand. Ah, Lestrade! Excellent! With a grin and a flourish, Sherlock sat up and answered the call. "What do you have?"

The detective inspector's voice was weary, as always. "Possible double homicide. No sign of cause of death, but mother and daughter both found dead in the same room in their house. Poison seems likely though. Might not be up to your usual caliber, but I thought…"

Sherlock glanced at John's rather dejected form in the kitchen as the doctor turned around mid-stir to look at him. "Doesn't matter," Sherlock interrupted the detective inspector. "We'll take it. Expect us within the hour."

"Oh," Lestrade replied, startled. Clearly, he'd expected Sherlock to refuse. Sherlock smirked. "Right then… I'll text you the address. Uh, see you shortly." He disconnected the call.

John came barely-limping into the room with their tea as Sherlock put down the phone. "Was that Lestrade?"

"Oh, _yes_." Sherlock beamed. He leapt from the couch to grip his flatmate's shoulders in excitement, and John held, wide-eyed, to his sloshing tea in surprise. "John, go get ready. We have a case!"

Cups steadied and spill averted, John handed Sherlock his mug and smiled back. "_Finally_."

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A/N – So what did you think? Like Sherlock's pov? Anything need any work? (This is mostly a cathartic writing exercise for me, so constructive feedback is super welcome!)

Replies to reviews:

Anon – I'm glad you found it believable, outside of the "wavily" issue. If it makes you feel any better, it was an intentional word choice. I was going for the fact that, waking up drugged and with a concussion, John was probably a bit disoriented and wouldn't be seeing/feeling things normally. Hence, perceiving the sounds as bouncing "wavily." Maybe it didn't work how I intended. Oops!

Tammy – Hmm… Not quite what I had intended for the story, but I hope you like it anyway!

Quirkyspirit – No, thank _you_! Behold: More! Thank you for your kind review. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

John smiled softly at the slightly sulky way Sherlock nibbled on his toast on the cab ride over. Dark hair skimming the wrinkled brow just above the distant glaze to his normally piercing eyes, he looked like a cat that had just been forced into a bath. It shouldn't be possible for a grown man in a sulk to border so treacherously on adorable, but somehow Sherlock managed it. Then again, he supposed Sherlock managed all sorts of things that shouldn't be possible. John was far from minding. He had been pretty much since Day One.

The younger man fastidiously brushed a tumble of crumbs off his coat lapels, and John clamped down on his smirk before the detective noticed. He was well aware that his thoughts strayed a bit past the mere friendship line, but it was just another in the series of thoughts that he was happy to keep in his own head. At least his friend was eating.

As Sherlock had whirled toward the door, all greatcoat and thrill-of-the-hunt, John had insisted he take some toast with him. Lord knows, the detective wouldn't be eating anything for a while if this case got complicated, and John needed to get food into him where he could. Just before they left was always his last chance before the man was consumed by the case—and consumed nothing else for the duration. Sherlock had objected of course, but begrudgingly allowed it as John pushed them out the door.

"Hypocrite," Sherlock had muttered with a reluctant smile as they'd got in the cab. "Where's _your_ toast then?"

John had just smiled back cheekily. "_I'll_ eat later on a case. Unlike some people. Eat your toast, Sherlock."

Sherlock had given a grumpful _hmph_ at that and slouched into the seat before munching on his toast. John had considered it a victory.

His smiled faded into a sigh. He wished he could say as much for last night.

Harry's rant last night had been even less sensical than normal. She'd been missing Clara, said that Clara was seeing someone else. She'd been convinced that she could buy back her ex's affections, and no matter how many times John had explained that that wasn't true, that she'd been the one to leave Clara, that Clara had a right to move on and _had_, she'd just called him an idiot and told him he was wrong. Eventually, her winding rant had swung into requests for money to put toward her plan, and she'd been frustrated and furious with him when he'd refused.

"_Well, what good are you then? Bloody hell, John, at least dad gave us money after he split. What good are you?"_

John let out a wavering breath at the memory of his sister's voice, but the sigh ended in a cough. He rubbed his brow line. What good was he? Not much, it seemed, that was for sure.

By the time he looked back up, the toast was gone, and Sherlock was studying him intently. His face was very serious, brow creased even more than before, but the previously distant look had disappeared from the now piercing eyes. As usual, John felt a bit like one of his specimens under a microscope. "Are you all right?" the detective asked after a moment.

John blinked and tilted his head. "Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. "Your _sister_." The name was pitched neutrally, as though the word were distasteful. Still, through the hint of disdain, John thought he could see slight frown lines—worry?—around Sherlock's eyes. Was Sherlock… worried about him?

After the initial surprise, John shook his head. Of course Sherlock knew about Harry's call last night. The man seemed to know everything. The blunt invasion into his thoughts by anyone else would have angered him, but Sherlock? By now he was used to it. To tell the truth, he was even a bit warmed that Sherlock bothered to notice.

Of course, talking about Harry was still awkward as hell. Not only did John not like to talk about her as a rule, but he'd known since that night after the hospital that his friend didn't like her. He could understand that, but Harry was still a part of him. So Sherlock disliking her so strongly… it stung unexpectedly. "Yeah," he sighed. "Harry."

Sherlock nodded, and John could practically see the gears whirring as he tried to think of something appropriate to say in response, perhaps even something comforting. The younger man shifted uncomfortably as clearly nothing came to mind.

John thought he loved him a little for trying though. The detective very rarely made an effort to be situationally appropriate, and a part of him was touched by the attempt. He smiled, even though he knew the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine, Sherlock. Don't worry about it. It's… fine."

It wasn't fine. He could see from Sherlock's face that he knew it wasn't fine, but the detective didn't push it. John was grateful when they finally pulled up at the address Lestrade had given them. When Sherlock got out, his focus had moved solely on to the case before them.

With a wince from a twinge of pain in his bloody leg, John paid the cabbie and eased himself out after Sherlock. The leg just hadn't been the same since the Pool—what were the odds he'd hurt the same one?—but at least it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been. The slight pain, along with the few lingering cold symptoms, were more a nuisance than anything. Nothing he couldn't handle. Certainly nothing worth staying home for and missing a case. He tried to following his consulting detective's example and focus on the task at hand.

The blue house was, as usual for the crime scenes they were invited to, cordoned off from the rest of the street. Sherlock's long legs had already carried him halfway to the yellow tape by the time John caught up. They ducked under together with practiced ease. As they approached the house, however, Sherlock veered off abruptly to examine the area around the front and sides of the place, leaving John to appear that he had arrived at the crime scene alone. John shook his head with a wry smile. Typical Sherlock. Police workers bustled in and out of the open front door, not paying John the least bit of attention. His phone buzzed and he looked down. Text from Harry. He ignored it.

With a long-suffering sigh, John crossed his arms and waited for his friend to return from his examination. It wouldn't be long. It never was. But he always felt a bit pathetic waiting there for Sherlock to return as obediently as if the detective had commanded, "_Stay_!" in that imperious voice of his. He told himself not to be ridiculous—the thought was more a product of Moriarty's lies than anything, and he knew it. Still, the feeling lingered somewhere in the pit of his stomach and mixed with the sour feeling from his conversation with Harry last night to form something insidious and ten times worse than either feeling alone. John swallowed quickly and urged Sherlock silently to hurry up.

It was, of course, at that moment that Sally Donovan caught sight of him and stopped midsentence. As she tapped her companion and Anderson turned around, John groaned internally. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with these two today. On a good day, they could be tolerable—Sally could even be almost pleasant—but today was not a good day. On seeing the horrified and disgusted expressions on their faces, he decided that he'd very much like to just knock their petty heads together and walk past in peace. Just once. It would certainly save everyone the normal melodrama—and Sherlock their insults. If they called him "freak" one more time, he swore… But instead, he smiled weakly and looked away, hoping that would be the end of it.

No such luck.

Anderson's sallow face pinched weirdly, wide eyes immediately crinkling in what John supposed was despair. "Oh, no," the big-nosed man moaned. "If you're here, then that means…"

John glared at him, crossing his arms in what he hoped was a clear warning to shut the hell up about what exactly that "meant." He almost smiled as the forensics specialist floundered, but Sally was not so easily intimidated. Anderson may be an idiot, but it was Sally's blatant disregard for the fact that Sherlock had feelings that cut the detective the most, and John knew it. Sally Donovan was no idiot and he suspected that under most other circumstances, she wasn't even a horrible person—and that made her condemnation of Sherlock all the worse.

She just scowled as, sure enough, Sherlock came around the corner to stand next to John. An eye roll worthy of any self-respecting teenager followed from Sally, and John's own glare deepened in response. "Of course. John Watson tags along wherever the frea—"

"_Don't_," John cut her off sharply, voice quiet but intense. Both mouths shut immediately and four Yarder eyes widened. With a flash of vindictive pleasure, he smiled briefly before taking the momentarily stunned Sherlock by the elbow and easing him inside the house.

"I… thank you," Sherlock said uncomfortably as he regained some of his composure.

John didn't respond for a moment, just glowered straight ahead. "Yeah, well…" He sighed and his eyes met Sherlock's before his mouth turned up in a small smile. Blue eyes watched him, confused and curious and undeniably grateful. He felt his anger soften even as his resolve steeled. Whatever Sherlock was, John thought, he was no freak, and people clearly needed to be told that every now and again. He made a silent promise to not let those kinds of comments slide anymore. They'd obviously been allowed too long as it was.

This thought was rewarded by a slight softening of Sherlock's eyes as his friend smiled in return. John's smile widened. "Did you see their faces?" he asked before they both dissolved into laughter. It fel so good to laugh it hurt, and they just stood like that for a moment before starting at the sound of Lestrade's relieved voice ahead of them. They laughed again.

"Ah, Sherlock, good," Lestrade called, giving them an odd look before clearly deciding he didnmt want to know. The two looked toward him as he beckoned them on impatiently. Sherlock immediately perked up and bounded after him as he led them into the next room. On to the case, then. John followed at their heels. They stood in the kitchen as they stared at the scene of the crime the next room over. "They were discovered by the daughter's husband an hour ago when he came off his night shift," Lestrade said, motioning toward the bodies.

The sight that greeted them was one John would never quite get used to, he decided. The sitting room would have been lovely, well-lit and well-furnished, were it not for the two dead bodies sprawled on the floor by the sofas. The white-haired mother and her graying daughter were contorted as though in pain, and the look of betrayed confusion on the old woman's face was enough to make John cold. The idea that anyone could deliberately do this… John felt the happy feeling in his stomach froma moment ago wither and die.

Sherlock, however, took one look at the scene and smirked in that way of his that always made John's heart and stomach swap places. The consulting detective gave a sly sidelong glance at the detective inspector. "You think it was the daughter, don't you?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, it is a possibility. Not uncommon in cases where a child is a caretaker of an elderly parent, unfortunately. Even a murder-suicide isn't unheard of. And the daughter's got the bloody bottle of her mother's heart pills in her _hand_, for God's sake."

"As usual, you're only seeing the _obvious_ possibility."

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Well, all right then, who was it?"

"Need more data!" Sherlock trilled, shooting John that smirk again. John couldn't help the smile on his own face as he watched Sherlock swoop around the scene and do what he did best. The privilege of being able to watch him was worth the gruesome crime scenes and dealing with Donovan and Anderson and the wary glances from the other Yarders and his sister's disapproval. He ignored a new text from Harry as his phone buzzed in his pocket again. If he'd ever belonged anyway, it was here, by Sherlock's side. Moriarty be damned.

%%%%%%%

Sherlock peered and plucked and prodded and probed for several minutes before he was fairly convinced of the killer's relationship to her two victims. Friend of the family turned daughter's husband's mistress. Hardly interesting or original. To his surprise, however, he didn't feel the crushing disappointment he expected at being so easily bored by the case. He caught sight of the soft, admiring smile John so often wore while Sherlock was working, and he couldn't help returning it crookedly.

The sour expression on Anderson's face only made the smile widen. Still pouting from John's scolding, was he? One of the few positive effects of John's interactions with Harry was that they made him even more protective of Sherlock than usual. Sometimes it was a bit tiresome, but most of the time, like today, it yielded priceless results. He idly wished it were possible that Anderson's face would get stuck that way. The thought was immensely amusing, but he let it go as he focused again on the case.

"John?" Sherlock beckoned.

The doctor bent down to examine the bodies in that gentle way of his, leaning back a moment later with a thoughtful expression. "Definitely poisoned…" he began slowly. "Bottle of digoxin in the daughter's hand, which could have been used. Conditions of the bodies consistent with digoxin toxicity. But…"

This was Sherlock's favorite part of John's examinations, when John discovered something the police had missed. He felt a small swell of pride. "But?"

"But…" He looked up at Lestrade for approval, and the detective inspector waved him on. With that, John used his gloved hands to carefully remove the bottle of pills from the daughter's hand. He studied it briefly, looked inside at the two pills they could see through the plastic. "But the number of pills left is consistent with the refill date and the dosage indicated on the bottle. The daughter could have been ferreting pills away to use as poison, but if she was, she didn't take any out of this bottle. Why wouldn't she have just used _all_ the pills? So… why have this bottle in her hand when she died if she didn't use any of the pills in it?"

Sherlock smiled. "Good, John. Conclusion?"

"The… daughter didn't kill her mother?" John suggested, hesitant as always. "Someone else killed them and placed the bottle in the daughter's hand to make it look like she'd done it?"

"Excellent!" Sherlock crowed and leapt to his feet. "It wasn't the daughter—obvious. Plates for three in the kitchen, mugs for three in the sink along with the teapot. Mugs and teapot washed out, but not the plates. Why? The killer was trying to erase the evidence. Something was _in_ the tea—foxglove, if I had to guess. Has a distinct odor and also leads to digoxin toxicity, since it's the plant from which the drug is derived. But why hide the evidence if there's no fear of accountability since you plan to kill yourself anyway? The daughter's not the murderer, then.

"No signs of a struggle and they were familiar enough to be having tea with the murderer, and without using the more formal china in the cupboard. They even let her make the tea, apparently, so friend of the family. Not the husband, since he left for work earlier than the ill-fated tea party and they wouldn't have bothered with any formality at all, had he been the third person. Indentations on the sofas and position of the bodies where they fell suggest that the murderer was seated closer to the daughter, so the daughter's friend then, most likely. Woman, going by the scent of her perfume and footprints leading toward and away from the scene, both inside and outside.

"But there are also clear indications of unhappiness in the daughter's marriage—unpolished rings, remember—and her appearance is run-down, not well kept up at all. She feels no need to impress her husband, or anyone else for that matter. No affair on her part, but also no romance for some time in her own marriage either. No, mostly likely, she's dedicated the majority of her time to caring for her mother, who only moved in a few months ago. So—strained marriage, discontented and distracted wife, and let's not forget the fact that the same perfume is found on several of the husband's jackets and fairly prominently in the room he obviously uses as his office. An affair with the daughter's friend, then. Daughter's friend then kills mother and daughter, thus eliminating them from the equation and claiming the husband for herself. Find the husband's mistress, Lestrade, and you've found your murderer. Simple."

John grinned at him again in a way that all but screamed, "Amazing!" and Sherlock felt his chest tighten, just a little.

Perhaps Thai, Sherlock thought suddenly, ignoring Lestrade as he began speaking. Now that this case was over, he could really go for some tom kha kai. And John did so love that noodle dish he always got when they went out for Thai. John coughed again, and Sherlock frowned. Then again, perhaps the doctor would be better served by some soup as well, for his cold. Perhaps the Thai restaurant down the street from that bakery they'd gone to the other day…

"Sir! Sir, we found it on the back of the front door when we closed it…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and snapped back to attention as Sally Donovan hurried up to Lestrade. What did she want now? He was moments away from rolling his eyes when he spotted the evidence bag in her hand. Inside was a… note? No, no—that wasn't right. Couldn't be. Nothing about this case had indicated a _note_… Barely taking notice of the concerned look John was sending him, Sherlock clenched his gloved hands and reached Lestrade's side in two impatient steps.

The detective inspector looked at the note and offered it to Sherlock with a shrug of obvious confusion. "Some sort of code?" he suggested.

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment before glancing down at the paper in the clear plastic bag.

_~AM I THrIlled YOu'Re heRe!_

_3_

Written on plain computer paper, no indications of origin—no clue there. Felt-tipped pen, most likely a Sharpie—again, nothing extraordinary. Fairly pedestrian, actually. Handwriting that of one person: male, right-handed, perhaps around thirty years old, confident—no, arrogant, obviously in a position of power and proud of it… Not the murderer. The husband? No, _obviously_ not. Who, then? Perhaps the message would tell.

_Am I thrilled you're here?_ Well, that was one possible message, but obviously it was a code—and not even a complex one at that. The capitalized letters were no doubt a scrambled version of the intended message, along with the punctuation. There was no other reason for the prominent curved hyphen-like mark at the beginning of the note. A symbol to separate a signature from the rest of the hidden message, perhaps? The prominence of the 'M' was significant, surely, likely meaning that one of the words began with the letter. The first letter in the name of the signature, if the confidence of the strokes were anything to go by. So, perhaps to work backwards from the name?

Mary? No, not male. No male first names were evident in the capitalized letters.

Last names? May? Mayo? Mayor? No, no, _no_… He snarled. It was right in front of his face—he knew it, he could feel it, but why couldn't he—_Oh_.

Suddenly, the lock clicked and fell open in Sherlock's mind and he felt a little thrill. Then the blood rushed from his face as the message became mockingly clear.

_HI! ~MORIARTY_

_3_

Moriarty. The heart. The note was for _him_. But how had Moriarty known he would be here…? He latched onto John's arm in a rush of panic. Tightening his grip, he tugged at John and ignored the small noise of confused protest as he pulled him around the house. There must have been something he'd missed, a clue, some detail, _something_…

"Sherlock?" he heard John ask in concern, but he was too busy looking over the bodies again to acknowledge him. Digoxin toxicity from foxglove tea. The husband's mistress, the wife's friend. He was right. He _knew_ he was right, so why was Moriarty leaving his mark on this case? Was he trying to call his attention to something? He gripped John a little tighter. Was it a warning? The heart… Burn the heart out of you…

"Sherlock!"

The sharp voice finally broke his concentration and he looked up in surprise at John's worried face. Worried and… slightly pained. The doctor was holding his arm stiffly, and Sherlock followed the arm to find the source of his friend's pain until his eyes rested on his own hand. He released John immediately with a brief look of apology before straightening and composing himself.

"Well, what the hell was all that?" Lestrade demanded, eyes wide.

Sherlock coolly picked a bit of imaginary lint off his coat. "I was merely ascertaining something."

"What, that Watson's arm is still attached to the rest of his body?" Anderson sniped.

With a withering look in Anderson's direction, Sherlock handed the note back to Lestrade. "It's from Moriarty."

John immediately tensed. "Sherlock…"

"All it says is 'Hi' and his name, but it's definitely him."

Still gaping, Lestrade glanced at John before fixing his gaze on Sherlock. "Bloody hell… Are you sure?"

"Positive."

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out absently, thoughts still running along the puzzle of Moriarty's note. It took a moment for him to recognize that the text was from an unknown number, but when he did he knew instantly who the message was from. He opened it.

_Nice to know I still have the ability to make your heart skip a beat, my dear. I'm touched! And how is dear John? ~M_

Sherlock barely had a moment to panic again before the next text came in, the first disappearing.

_You're going to destroy him, you know. I'll barely even have to do a thing. All I do is just plant a few little seeds… I do love a garden._

Seeds? Garden? Was there a hidden message there, some sort of clue? Sherlock watched as this message too disappeared from his phone, and he didn't bother wondering how Moriarty had done the seemingly impossible. He snuck a glance of at the very pale John who was looking anxiously at his own phone. When he held out his hand for John's phone, the man handed it over without a word, obviously bewildered by the message he'd received. Sherlock read it.

_Oh, we're going to have so much fun. : )_

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_A/N – Well, here I am, trying to tackle this story again. I've had a lot going on since I dropped this story, but I'm hoping to pick it up again (obviously AU at this point). Don't hate me if updates are few and far between for a while I try to get back into the swing of things! Thanks for reading, and reviews are loved and cuddled like kittens!_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – Sorry for the delay, blah blah yadda yadda, etc. Real life getting' me down, man. But onwards! I have some unexpected free time coming up, so maybe that means more updates? (or maybe not lol) Apologies if it's not up to snuff. I kind of rushed it a bit because I felt bad it had been so long since I updated...

Warnings for possible sadness at the end of this one. See the disclaimer at the end after reading.

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John stared at his phone as Sherlock handed it back to him wordlessly. Their eyes met for a moment before Sherlock averted his eyes and stepped away. Odd. John frowned and felt a shiver go up his spine. He'd seen that implacable look before, and he knew enough to recognize it now. Sherlock was concerned—and confused. A dangerous combination. Always bound to make him cranky. John kissed his hopes for a toasted cheese sandwich goodbye. Or Thai. He would have loved that noodle thing… or soup…

Sherlock was right. He should have eaten before he left.

With Moriarty back in the picture, there'd be no stopping Sherlock now. John sighed and dropped his eyes to his phone again. Moriarty's message—mocking little smiley and all—still stared up at him from the screen.

_Oh, we're going to have so much fun. : )_

What could it mean? And why had it been sent to _his_ phone, and not Sherlock's? Sherlock was the one Moriarty had his little "game" with—not John. He'd had quite enough direct involvement from the episode with the bomb vest, thanks very much. And that episode hadn't done Sherlock any good either, he thought. Although he had so enjoyed the puzzle of it all... That little doubt still niggled away at the back of his mind.

"_He'll recognize the difference soon enough. And he'll abandon his little stray. You're of absolutely no value to a man like him. Nothing you do can change that…"_

Moriarty's words lingered, pulsed in John like a clotted vein, obstructing a clear flow of thought as he gripped his phone. One day, the clot would break off, he knew… straight to his heart…

Wait. No, it wouldn't. Because Sherlock did care. He did. John shivered again and wondered what was wrong with him. Had his fever had returned? It wasn't _that_ cold in here, to be shivering—and thinking such ridiculously melodramatic thoughts…

"John—_John_." Sherlock's voice broke into his thoughts, forcing John to focus on his friend's raised eyebrows. Sherlock motioned for him to get in the cab that seemed to have magically appeared. John didn't even remember walking outside. He glanced back at the house to see Lestrade standing in the doorway, looking perturbed, before the doctor turned and got in the cab. Sherlock slid in after him and shut the door.

"Where to, mate?" asked the cabbie, hair flopping in his face. How could he drive like that? John wondered. Shouldn't there be regulations for cabbie hair length, or something?

"221B Baker Street," answered Sherlock. "What?" he said in response to John's questioning look. Settling back in the cab seat, he pulled his coat tighter around him. "I need to think." And for the next hour, he did. He sat in his chair, fingers steepled, staring into the middle distance.

John, on the other hand, did his best to keep busy. He made his toasted cheese sandwich after all. Ate it. Cleaned up after it. Cleaned the rest of the kitchen (except the area around Sherlock's latest experiment—he was pretty sure that one was going to require gloves). Looked up foxglove on the internet. Checked his e-mail. Debated responding to Jessica's break-up e-mail (why did they all keep dumping him?). And generally felt bloody useless as he waited for Sherlock to find a use for him again. He sat in the chair next to Sherlock and waited—like a good dog.

%%%%%%%

At last, Sherlock straightened. Not his "aha!" rapid straightening, which would have meant that he'd actually made some worthwhile progress, but a slow straightening that he'd come to associate with frustration. "It has to be the garden where the mistress got the foxglove for the tea," Sherlock said after a pause.

Coming out of his apparently enraptured fiddling with a pen, John took a moment to fret at his friend's tone before responding. "Why… don't you sound happy about that?"

"Because it's too _obvious_," Sherlock hissed in displeasure. " '_All I do is just plant a few little seeds… I do love a garden_'? It's a double meaning, has to be—the murderer's garden, or her source's, and… what? He's up to something."

Something to do with John, he thought, clenching his hands. But _what_? Sherlock hated metaphors. Moriarty could do virtually anything to John. He had the will and the means—have him shot, have him drowned, hit by a taxi, maimed in an alleyway, left for dead… How was Sherlock meant to know what he intended in order to stop it? His stomach dropped out at the thought of John dead, lying in an alleyway, abandoned and alone, but he sniffed and straightened a little more. "Well, we'll just have to keep an eye on you." That was all there was to it. He hoped.

John "hmm"ed in agreement before he clearly registered what he'd said. "Sorry… an eye on _me_?"

"Yes, of course. You're clearly the target of whatever Moriarty's planning." Honestly. Hadn't that been made clear? He rolled his eyes at the doctor's blank expression. "The _text_, John, the _text_. Sent to _your _phone?"

John just frowned. "But, Sherlock—_you're_ the one he's after. What on Earth would be the point of targeting me?"

Those indeterminately-colored eyes looked at him as Sherlock froze in surprise. What was the _point_? Did he really not know? But just as Sherlock opened his mouth to say he knew not what, Sherlock's phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at it—Lestrade—and snatched it up. "Yes?"

"Sherlock. You're going to want to see this."

Sherlock's mouth pulled down at the corners in irritation. Lestrade and his vagueness could be very trying at times. "See _what_, exactly?"

"It's the mistress. She and the husband are both dead."

%%%%%%%

John stared at the scene before him, feeling very blank but somehow as though his stomach had been filled with very wet concrete. The woman and man laid out before them were carefully arranged next to each other, heads turned toward each other—seeds spilling out of their mouths. Sherlock bent over them, poking and prodding as usual. John refused to approach. His part in this case was unnecessary. The cause of death was obvious—asphyxiation by means of seeds shoved down the victims' throats.

"This doesn't make sense," Sherlock fumed, greatcoat swirling behind him as he paced the mistress' flat in agitation. "Why would he have them killed? Why?"

"Mmm…maybe they knew something?" John offered with a tentative shrug.

Sherlock shook his head. His hair flopped a bit with the motion. "It's unlikely they knew anything of importance—certainly not enough to bring down Moriarty."

"No? It is possible, you know," Lestrade countered, hands on his hips.

"Don't be ridiculous; he'd never be that careless," Sherlock hissed, making a particularly dramatic turn. "Besides, this is a game to him. Each piece and move will have been carefully constructed before he ever even began the game."

"Of course," John said sarcastically to no one in particular. This "game" business-ridiculous. People dying, and for what? He glanced back at the bodies and that wet concrete feeling returned with a vengeance. The mistress may have been a murderer, but no one deserved to die like this, such terror on their blue faces, clear evidence of nails having dug into the hardwood in an attempt to struggle free… least of all for some twisted "game." The deaths of the mother and daughter, the mistress and husband… they lacked real meaning. Just a piece in a game of a man who considered himself greater-and was _bored_.

John felt the concrete in his stomach harden and sink to his feet. What was the point of any of it, really? He swallowed and looked away from the bodies, back towards the still pacing Sherlock. Suddenly, the detective halted, nearly running over a chair as he turned toward them. "Stop! Not a word. I need to think. That means you," he growled as Lestrade opened his mouth. The detective inspector shut it again and sighed.

In the stillness, as Sherlock stared at the bodies, one hand on his chin, John's phone began to vibrate. "Oh, for—" he began before he noticed Sherlock's glare. He gave an apologetic shrug, then stepped outside. It was still freezing. Flustered, he picked up without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

"John!"

His eyes widened. "Harry."

"Why have you been avoiding me? I've been texting you all day!"

"Yes, yes you have," said John. _And so has Moriarty, so I really don't have the energy for this conversation right now, especially after last night's chat…_ Instead, he just said, "Look, Harry, I'm really busy right now—"

Harry snorted. A tinge of something like jealousy crept into her voice. "What, chasing after your detective? You can take two seconds to talk to your sister, little lap dog."

"That's not—"

"Heeeeeeere Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! Come to Sherlock! Good boy!" She laughed and John's heart clenched.

It wasn't that it was a particularly cruel laugh—he'd had crueler from her—but it touched that nerve, that oh-so-sensitive nerve that had been trod on all day and stomped on just that little bit too much. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose as he tried to contain his anger. "Harry," he warned.

"Did he buy you a leash yet? But then, you probably heel like a good—"

"That's enough!" John snapped. "Believe it or not, there are actually lives at stake here. I don't have time to—"

"Oh, no you don't, Johnny Boy, you're not shutting me out again—"

"Grow up, Harry!" John yelled down the phone, "Johnny Boy" still ringing in his ears as a shiver went down his spine. "Grow the fuck up, for once in your life! It's barely noon; how are you already drunk? There are two people, dead, in the next room, a madman who's killing them for _fun_ for all I can tell, and you're seriously going to demean what… I just… can't… I can't deal with you today." She made a noise as if to protest and John shook his head. "No, actually, I just can't deal with you. At all, right now. Get sober, Harry. Sober for real this time. Call me when you've been sober for a whole _six_ _months_. Until then, I don't want to hear from you." He hung up, giving the END button an emphatic push, and as the blessed silence reigned over the phone line...

He immediately felt guilty. Eyes widened and breathing quickened. What had he done? He'd never pushed her away quite so harshly before. Six months? Wasn't that a bit extreme? His fingers itched to call her back, to apologize—he just worried about her and he'd had a shit day, and damn it, he was a little scared that one of Moriarty's snipers was just going to haul off and shoot him between the eyes any second, and it wasn't fair to take that out on Harry… But he stopped. No. Maybe what she needed was a little tough love. Nothing else had worked, that was for sure. Maybe this could be the kick in the arse she needed to finally get sober. He'd give it a month and then call to see how she was doing.

That decided—although his gut was still churning anxiously—he shook his head and turned on his heel. He had to get back to Sherlock.

%%%%%%%

Harry stared at the phone in her hand. He'd hung up on her! God, he'd always been so damned sensitive. But… he'd hung up on her. And _six months_? How was she meant to do that? She'd tried to get sober before, but it just never stuck. He knew that. If he didn't want to hear from her until she'd been sober for that long, then… she'd never be able to talk to her brother again. She couldn't do it. Sure, she hated him as much as she loved him sometimes, and he claimed she said awful things to him on the phone—bollocks, if you asked her. Their conversations were probably just boring if she never remembered half of them—but he was all she had now.

Well, almost all.

Tears welled up in her eyes, obscuring the screen as she composed a text and sent it along to Marty. _He hung up on me. Bastard._

It took a moment for the reply to come back. _I told you he didn't care about you._

_I know. And you were right._

She sniffled and held her phone for a moment before sending another text. _What do I do?_

The shrug in his answer was almost palpable. _End it._

Harry's eyes widened and her tears overflowed as she texted back. _I thought we agreed not to do that?_ A hand went up to her mouth as she stifled a sob. But oh, how she wanted to…

He texted back: _I can't take it anymore. It never gets better. I'm ending it tonight._

A pause, then Marty texted:

_We can end it together._

Harry dropped the phone into her lap. She rubbed her hands against the rough fabric of her jeans, feeling the beginning of a rugburn form. He was right. She buried her face in her chafed hands and cried. He was right. It never got better and it never would. She quickly wiped her face of tears, nodded once, picked up the phone.

_All right_.

_Good. We'll end it together then. Tonight._

Harry stared at her phone and nodded again. She'd met Marty on a suicide chat site, but somehow it never occurred to her that it would really end like this. Like Marty said though, it would be for the best. _See, John? _she thought, _You won't have to worry about me anymore._ She had just gotten up to go get things ready, she supposed, when her phone bleeped again. She picked it up. It was from Marty.

_Don't forget to write a note_.

%%%%%%%

A/N – Please don't commit suicide. My step-dad's twin brother committed suicide after 9/11 and my step-dad has never been the same. It hurts those you leave behind, and there's always hope, no matter how dark it seems. There's always someone out there who loves you, even if it doesn't seem like it.

On that note, I would not mind feeling some love. Please do review! Reviews fill my heart with kittens. Also... buttercups?


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